I Carry Your Heart
by sutaretagaisce
Summary: As each shard fills the prince's heart, she can feel her own feelings growing beside his.


**  
Frustration**

It starts as a small offhanded fluttering, like wings brushing against her chest, the feeling she has for the prince. And grows each day, so when she first agrees to become Princess Tutu it feels as if her heart is so full it could burst into a thousand flecks of light.

She loves him. More than the lake on a summer day, or soft breadcrumbs; more than the inarticulate quacking sounds a duck can say. She loves him dearly, irrationally, passionately and beyond anything she was supposed to be.

Her desire makes her human, with a heart that wants human things. And with it she finds a thousand new names to love—the feeling of grass between toes, the taste of ice cream, of practicing on the barre. More than anything she wants to use these new words to tell him of all the wonders she's discovered. She wants to share in this world she followed him into. Because if his heart is empty and hers is overfull, surely between them there could be a happy compromise.

But most of all she wants to say "I love you." In rash moments she thinks she just might, forgetting the warnings Drosselmyer placed upon her for trespassing into his realm; merrily, merrily dancing after the prince. So she must be careful not to let her love grow beyond the confines of her heart, lest she lose everything. Even the lake, breadcrumbs, and summer days.

She tries to be circumspect, but when Princess Tutu finds the first heart shard she understands why she willingly endures it for him. Even if it is a feeling that is full of agony and dreams deferred, Mytho's heart is so powerful in its feeling that it eclipses everything else. Holding his shard of frustration, her own restlessness is kindled and lingers with his as it returns to the hollow part in his breast. And a part of her never wants to let it go, even if she knows how much pain it has wrought.

Is this what it truly means to be human? She asks herself.

**Loneliness**

She never knew what it meant to be lonely before meeting him. As a duck, she doesn't feel alone. There is no expectation in being by oneself, it simply is a result of circumstances, like the scattering of feathers in wind. But then (and she really could not say as her memories were muddled like pond water) she never wanted to be _with_ anyone before.

No, it isn't a loneliness she felt for herself, but for him. For when he dances he truly looks alone. Like he would continue to spin and twirl to set steps for all time, with no one to come and change his sad and solitary ballet. She wants to dance with him so it would not be so, and from that sprang her own loneliness.

It is different, to walk with him in the daylight and feel so close and impossibly away at the same time. Sneaking glances at him from the corner of her vision, he is something she can reach out and touch. And he is staring ahead with a faraway expression that never seems to hold anything.

She catches his wrist, spurring him on to replace the water she spilled out on his wound without a second thought. He trails behind and she feels her palm slide across the scratches marring his otherwise smooth hand. He says it doesn't hurt, he can't feel pain, but nevertheless she tries not to grip it too tightly.

And she pulls him on, glad to know that he lets her and that his hand turns up and wraps around her fingers instinctively. Because if he did not she fears she might keep going, like Orpheus in the underworld, and when she finally turned to look back he would be gone forever.

**Sadness**

"If you share the same fate as I, then why is your dance not laden with sorrow?"

"Because there are many other emotions in my heart that won't give in to sadness."

She says this, she means this. And when the dance is over and the maiden is set free, she feels sad that her ending was not happier. But when she curtsies before the prince she feels longing and joy and accomplishment. Each soaks through her, nourishing her resolve in spite of the way her words and platitudes dry up at the sight of his tears. It hurts, she admits to him, but it is important.

Although he cannot resist, has no other emotions to turn to when the sadness settles in his chest. He has only her, and she has to leave him when Tutu's task done and the story finished. Not happily but still finished.

She runs, all the feelings blurring together the way her crying eyes seems to make the night and the phantoms dissipate into the same nothingness. But the farther she runs, it seems as if she may outdistance them all except for the grief. How many times would she be destined to hold his heart in her hands but never the love that comes from it?

_I want to be with him_

The more she sees of Mytho, the deeper the sadness she sees in his eyes. He is a riddle slowly unfolding before her, with turning corridors and forgotten passageways she wants to explore. She could get lost in him and forget everything else, a labyrinth taking her closer to the center of him where she could stay and anchor herself. But she won't. She has things to do, roles to fulfill. And like she told the ghost, Mytho is not hers to lay claim to.

_I want to be by his side and see his smile_

But that doesn't mean it hurts any less.

****

Devotion

By the lamplight, she dances. It is an awkward waltz, where she trips over her own feet as she aspires to match to her imagined partner's moves. Although she never could she sighs to herself and takes her arms up again. The curve of her palm pretending it's his hand resting in hers. Standing on tiptoes because she cannot dance en pointe, she lifts herself so as to reach up to wind her other arm around his shoulders. A hiccupping gasp as she staggers and dreams he pulls her close.

The attic room is too small and she, overeager and ungainly, would have tripped over him a dozen times already. He would have caught her each starting stumble, she knows this. That is who he is to her. It is what makes her long for him when she bangs her foot against the dresser table. And also makes her glad he is not here to see her cotton nightshirt fluttering against her knees as she flaps and flutters like a caged bird. Ashamed that she cannot be as graceful as the partner he deserves.

She is playing pretend. A pale shadow of the beauty she could remember dancing as Tutu, soft and warm and all too easily snuffed out like a candlewick. She has danced with each part of the heart returned to him, and as Duck she has danced with him. It may be enough. Not like a pas de deux at the Fire Festival, with the great blaze lighting up cobblestones and destined paths. Not enough for a happy end. ...but maybe enough for her.

As she drifts off to sleep, the lamp's glow dims and fades. In the darkness, her dreams of him continue until she is forced into waking.


End file.
